You Got it Bad

She ran straight to me.

They’d been chasing her up and down the street all morning. I hadn’t even set my bag down yet when she came right up to me. I reached down and gave her a little ear scratch.

“Wait—don’t let her—”

My cousin came running toward me, my mother and my aunt following behind. The pup took off.

“Oh shoot. She got away.”

The ladies of the family had been out on the lawn trying to figure out what to do about the runaway pup when I pulled in.

“I’m worried about her,” my aunt said. “She was practically to the highway earlier this morning.”

“What happened?”

“She’s been running around all morning. I’m afraid she’s gonna get run over. I called the Smootses,” my aunt said. “Polly said ‘if she gets hit, she gets hit.’”

“Lord help.”

My aunt was appalled. My mother was outraged. My cousin was planning a dognapping billed as a rescue mission.

“I say get some Beggin’ Strips and she’ll hop right up in my van,” she said.

This wasn’t the first time my straightlaced, buttoned-up, clearly more enterprising cousin had suggested larceny. Or followed through with it.

Last Thanksgiving, we went to brunch at The Stone House. When we were leaving, I noticed some of the foliage along the walkway.

“Those berries would be perfect for my Advent wreath.”

They were tiny little orbs—far more vibrant than the holly berries I’d picked from my own bushes on my own property. My cousin whipped out a pair of clippers and helped herself. Once she had a good bouquet—in record time—she handed it to me with a shrug.

“Let’s roll.”

By the time I put my suitcase away and freshened up from the long drive, the girls were sitting around the table, working out a plan. All the guys were downstairs watching football or basketball or some guy in a tie talking about football or basketball or something. All I know is they weren’t concerned with what was happening in the war room upstairs.

My mother told me they were thinking of offering to buy the pup.

“That’ll go over well…” I mumbled.

The last thing she needs is another dog. They’ve already got four.

My mother texted back and forth with Mrs. Smoots. Turns out she was more than overwhelmed. Her daughter and son-in-law had landed back at home, indefinitely, with his two kids, a newborn, and this dog. She was stretched beyond her bandwidth and willing to make a deal. More than a deal—she was ready to hand over the leash.

Not nearly the most exciting option we’d discussed, but we were satisfied. We possé’d up and headed across the street, Beggin’ Strips in our pockets.

We collected the pup—a Goldendoodle. Did I mention that? And did I mention a Goldendoodle can be black? Who knew?

Anyway, we headed over to my mother’s house—she has a bigger backyard. As we walked, the pup kept falling back, slipping into step with me.

“You might be her person, Grace Lynne.”

“You need to take her home.”

I smiled. Gave them all the excuses, the top being my inability to keep most living things alive—myself barely excluded.

But… she was a cutie.

We got to the backyard and my mother released the hounds. The skittish pup would run around, trying to play, but after a loud bark or growl, she’d end up right back next to me. She’d hop up and gently place her paws on my thighs.

She’d try again.
Another bark.
Back at my side.

Or with her little butt sitting on my feet.

Again, they commented on how much she seemed to take to me. How I needed to take her home.

I looked down at my feet.

And the pup sitting on them.

It would be nice to come home to this every night…

We moved to the porch and my mother put the other dogs away. My nephew—I love him so—came out with treats galore. The pup inched over to him and he picked her up, cuddling her like a babydoll.

Well. I’m not gonna fight my nephew for a dog.

But… she sure was a love.

I started back to my aunt’s house for the night. As I walked across the street, my mother texted me one last time:

She’d be perfect for you…

The house settled in and I was snuggled in my bed in the Peach Room. I picked up my phone.

Nashville, I think I’m getting a dog.

Who are you and what have you done with Grace?

I’m serious. Look at her.

I sent him some photos and got him caught up on the situation.

She’s cute. You don’t need a dog.

But I think I love her.

Well. Nice knowing you.

He wasn’t a fan of dogs. Not allergies, really. Just… grumpiness, I think.

She loves me. She sat on my feet. She put her little paws on me.

You won’t be able to go out on a whim.

Who would want to, with that little face waiting at home?

You’ll have to take her on walks.

I walk.

All the time. Even when it rains.

I have an umbrella.

In July.

…well.

It’s hot, Grace. You won’t be able to opt out.

I can put my hair up.

Dang, Grace. U Got It Bad.

I did.

I sat the phone down and drifted off, dreaming of a little Goldendoodle all night.

I got up the next morning and shuffled across the street to Mom’s for breakfast. They were making sausage balls—and special vegetarian ones for me—and serving up strong coffee. I was barely in the door—and sure hadn’t had my coffee—when my mother said it.

“Your sister-in-law’s going to take the dog!”

“Uhm?”

“We sent her pictures last night. She fell in love.”

“Did she now.” My jaw set, and I looked at my feet. My lonely, empty, Goldendoodle-less feet. I plopped down in the cozy chair. The one by the door. Five steps from here to there.

“How about that.”

The rest of the morning was a blur. The pup hopped up, took a few spins, then settled in like a lap dog. Like my lap dog. We ate breakfast. Then dinner at my aunt’s.

I usually stayed the whole weekend.

I told them I had to get home.

I called Nashville on the drive.

“They gave her to Callie.”

“What? Grace, I’m sorry. I really am.”

“I know.”

Then I called my brother. I told him everything.

“I’m sure I loved her. Why are they like that?”

“I don’t know Grace. I really don’t. And they know how you are. But I need you to do me a favor.”

“What?”

“Next time you want something? I need you to say something. I need you to speak up. Don’t think about it. Just do it.”

It’s true. I’m a slow mover. I have to mull things over. I was inching toward that Golden. But not fast enough. And someone else got her before I could. Some friends have offered to rectify the situation—to drive me right on down to the shelter to pick out a pup.

But.

I don’t want just any old pup.

I wanted her.

I had it bad.

But I didn’t speak up in time.

Dang, Grace.